PROLEGOMENA: How do you feel about me?
In the vertical movement of excavation, exhumation and exhalation as an allotropic carbon cult.
Scripts are not prescribed, neither they script themselves, it’s mostly after-response, that also changes depending on the position in a given timeframes.
The Topography Of Language is not only demarcated by the areas of the multifaceted cultural archetypes that sometimes are more common than other, nevertheless opaque. As by acoustic, in a sense, verbal, coherent and speculative vibrations in tight relation with erect posture of the human being the language/ voice itself is a phenomenon of empty cavities.
Air suspended by vocal folds under the strain of one’s reflexes and emotions, i.e. the higher density of thought matter. So much so, that one out of ignorance overlooks the construction of subject, absent in constructing it, assuming that the individual reflection of life is a narrative. Behind the numerous and sophisticated ways in interpreting it — does human mind still chops it onto static images, where the prehistorical experience is present?
Intricate symbols yet to be translated, the cognitive processes deciphered using primitive, native, second or X language? The interpretation of a language, the momentary language becomes one’s functional tool, but even the sharpest are unable to dissect themselves.
The density or lack of pressure can be perceived as alpha value: soft and liable to smear — charcoal.
Or the farthest extreme of it — omega value: clear, even able to distort the light — Diamond, are both the same particle, a part of something dead itself, unaffordable to reflect right away. As for a speaker of seven languages, three of them are dead by now, few are going to vapor out in a century or maybe two, assembling thought-plateaus by day and demolishing them by night — whom one must reply to exactly in a deepening abyss of progress trap? The incapacity to abandon the search of a monogamous thought in hypertext. Always in time-travel. The notion of equality in capitalism, in general, those very contradictory invalid statements of author-drones, unable to drill through the surface, expanding as tar sands. Self-evident, counterfeit identities must be thrown into a furnace.
Grimaces, gestures, the physical signifiers of communication, reduce lexical or sentential ambiguity, were a revolutionary step of language processes.
Spoken words are motor movements around spatial-temporal targets. The motoric compensatory corrections activate the ability to readjust and reach various levels of language complexity. The telegraphic structure of the sentence is emblem or death mask, requiring distinct supramodal corporeal guidance. One becomes a tenant, limited by his verbal, to be more accurate — lexical affordance, bidirectional accumulative interpretation of linguistic compositions, as a means of swapping the information, so the connection of continually advancing technologies and socio-linguistic development is frail.
From one function of coordinates, it might be perceived as one straight line, when it is just two correlating parameters from the another or low-frequency circular movements or even obscure or invisible from point X and dematerialized beyond spatial-temporal axis.
We settled the visit date and rented a car, an old military jeep, that belonged to someone from higher rank, who managed to tame the corrosion. Weller didn’t travel much at that moment - no job obligations, no personal interests or desires to escape. Like most of the upper tier technical administrators, Weller got plenty of social interaction and hummed tirelessly. We turned the engine off only around 9 PM. Elbows were swooping up and down. Fingers played garlic keyboards with sharp knife dividers.
Weller: It took Kissos a day to recover — look, cut this one too, it’s too big.Bihath: Recovery is a wrong word here, Weller, it wasn’t like that at all.Xiăn steals the chunk of root, puts it in mouth: It all went well! Kissos should have considered staying there longer. W: It’s gap decan.X: Raise nine cups for the wish card.
You see those steel lianas and mirages of recognition and performance. It happens, scripts if you prefer in particular geological time and erases itself with the finishing of sequences. It disturbs and reverses processes, which are believed 85 percent of the time isn’t its decisions, even though internal in the most objective sense. The All, though not conflated to any One or Ones are insipid of actions. The transit mostly ends in combusting the vehicle of transition. Dependent on elemental conditions one might compress and set itself on fire. Or decompress and evaporate, or mutate and shrink, propel, engorge, twist, copy, and clone
The landscapes are the way we touch and can’t tame the powers within. We slash the ribcages open. I become the becoming, and I unroot and rewire. The visualizing helps but does not supplant. It contains but is not itself.
One huge forested hill turns back to the buildings and overspills the sea. The lower hill has been cut and flattened out for parking lots and shuttle landing plateaus. The steepest parts were torn down, excavated, white tarps placed on top to prevent landslides and unnecessary erosion during rains. It’s about the fall, the collapse of all, the other rise. Trees in constant growth are assassinating cable work and electricity. Barricades, frontiers, and last refuge.
This is the weather forecast for new upcoming weeks: it won’t change. We — the societal swarm with both burdens and tokens distributed to tiniest agents, automatically shifting to the higher gear. Driverless mass rapid transit systems, theories of navigation and dashboards. I sit in railcar and see rapids swallowing sidewalks and ground floors. We stay silent. The train doesn’t stop — Crossroads are now cross-streams.
My throat stiffens when sudden light streams over the train. The first stop, luggage check of some kind. The temperature drops by 12 degrees Kelvin with each possession I claim. The supervision uncloaks her machinery of vigilance, having a clearance to go through private personal spaces. I collaborate. The experience, attentiveness calling you to drop your clothes. I say the names of leaving, soaring vehicles come from verbs and are movements in action. There is no ground, and I’m overridden
Blinking, beeping sound of pedestrian gates.
Dawn breaks in.
Slanted glass railings reflect the street, so I observed the blurred and washed out figures crossing and standing around. The flat alleys of new retail stores, their dehydrating atmosphere of competition and desire. I go back in time and almost immediately notice The Headquarters of Blindfolded Countess. A stone-walled embodiment represents the conjugal loyalty. Bringing the offerings, I would traverse the places of tribal war families. The big slabs built for the transport and the military. In spaces of remembrance, steel chisels leave forgotten words: For the state, faith, monarchy and the people.
Seven tall gowned figures gathered with rose apple sleeves, decorated with the bicornuate elements, the Mount Erskine, open sand and granite quarry and with other hills. They are discussing our siblings' motivations and well-being. While eating lunch without breakfast, they shape and release new forms of contortionism and malabsorption.
Kissos: Under-rrr the jetty wherein-in-in the eels sparkle!
I’m dressed in something that would resemble a killer whale costume. The thick, porous, black insulating fabric technology with white spots on my sides and under. I’m telling my resolutions to conch shells and rajungans; I express wishes of cessation, dreams of disrupting too. They are my concubines, allies, my animated caretakers of passion. Forgetting to forget, neural impulses of bleached out and dimmed experiences, visible only now, shimmery village reflecting, throwing facades and building up multigangers. An industry of lost, of slipping identity, surrounded by itself, provoking itself to churn and crumble. My hands twisted, fingers turning upward, making sharp movements. Upward, forward and nowhere-precisely. Ambushing — interrupted, unexplained; a backward writing, sighting, and boredom of unkept promises, weirdly reverberated and heated up. Is there even a bit of subtle solutions, that could be not suddenly brushed off as discontinuity of facts, realities. This short episode of dead shells as allies glimmering in pearl comes as a banal act of hope that five pieces of decaying exoskeleton will help to overthrow the nine thousands long reign of eye tearing turbulence. The alternatives, the actual paths are getting cleared out of failing calculations and projections.
Entitling myself to allow people to love, like and despise me as they prefer and feel. It’s not the worst thing that you become continually frustrated with the fact that you demand too much. It’s the people around you feeling that they can never fulfill you and actually believing in it.
Act X Close up of Hands face.
The cedar branch is draped in linen and ends with a dagger.
The blade is darker. Supposedly from the acidic dirt of this area and serial bursting of one’s confidence. Hands cut and carve the reflections out of its face — dynamic, evil, supportive.
Hands: The manner always changes, sub-consciously rewiring the epistemic heritage of time in waiting. Being almost translucent, with nowhere for others to grip on. A delicate gradient of islands in which we appear, and peninsulas where we turn our backs. I thought I’m succumbing and falling. I suck in my stomach and arch myself. The heels lift up, and the knees bend in for a premature reposition. With a cut, anticipations materialize, and the illusion of waiting evaporates — nanosecond of action, even if wagered?
Actually, there is no gravity, no acceleration, and no movement. I plunge my thumb, index and middle fingers below my solar plexus. I reach for a black volcanic rock with the coating of gal. Its edges cling to the flesh and etch it with crude incisions. I wonder whether its formation coincided with your spit in my face, a throw-off, and abandonment. Or the hands of the pickpocket slid it through the linen shirt in a long embrace, robbing me off the ground, the last few cobblestones for toes.
I tear it out slowly. Breaking the spell of illusions, squeezing out the waters, that stand and rot in hotter, humid areas like this. The thunderstorm breaks. A taboo prevails. The urge to touch stopped, and I’m hesitating to raise my hands above and get accidentally dirty or infected. I guess I had anticipated it in some way. The affordance of intimacy comes with a price of stressed fragility. It disperses, and just because the pain was exposed, the devastating curiosity leaves me motionless and staring into what I perceive as painful death by wild natural forces. Energetically being one — as warm alkaline water as we inaugurate the new solar year after the last one left us in the wreckage, we all stood in an embrace. Year of the lovemaking to myself, dry-humping, underwear washing. Legs stick to the deep seated sofa. Body’s after-sweat drains the imbalance of heat storm. Littoral boundaries were crossed.
Act OVHands: The Monzogabbro had inflamed the tissues around it?Kissos: Correct, the epoxies had decomposed blood plasma. I already sent the samples. The personal file contains a list, I will read it: keys, knee cap bondage, low cut jeans.
Hands: No ID?
K: For what? We have it already filled out and sealed, from a few years ago.
Hands: Sabotaging the good moods? My other daydream was of fingers in my ass.
K: Ask me if I’m bothered.
فاتن on screen
فاتن: In doing so —K: I would not use namesفاتن: they! — They have been found, formulated and born. By the way, with accounts of detailed financial expenditures. Three specific methods how to read a quiet carry-on ghost. And they are virtually accessible anywhere. I expanded the research field to exercises in hospitality and hostility, conclusions and resolutions, in general — the social armament of dealing. K: But they are all just the same moments. فاتن: We are trying to make sense out of this, Kissos.K: I didn’t want to insult you.
فاتن: It’s okay, good evening Hands.H: Lovely to hear you too, Faten.
The Annoyances queue with the tailored, sleek, poured-over caramel jackets. Poetic, self-creating, self-enthroning bits of misconceptions, sprinkled with twitching respiratory smirks.
Hands: Does this convince you? Kissos: I prepare myself H: to ride flash floods?K: Landslides, yes. Fluctuations in the foreign currency exchange values hatching whole new sets of catastrophes. Creating fictions of things is possible.H: I’m already a thing. I have actual modes —K: Sure thing — of being an up-to-date citizen with emotionally adjustable deviations from seamless functioning to self-sabotage and hubris.H: I see some spill and evoke rumors.
K gets back to the desk
H: You know the locals themselves take pictures of this weather. Some really enjoy it.K: The new means of depiction, isn’t it? That reveals a lot.H: It’s obvious, I mean the reaction.K: Have you measured the temperature of light around here lately?H: Yes, it doesn’t change nor flicker; I could not find anything that resembles what you described.
The supporters scream — It is not an intentional cut — that was a loose rope and mishap with all those pulleys who launched the spear. They took it and will carry until waves crush them into crumbles and all the salty water of their pores and corners evaporate to this circulation warm sand breeze. Sadly we set the alienated tone and suspicion as a communicational standard, every softer word comes as a metaphor, a playful, extra-sweetened, inflated slap in the face.
Bihath masturbates during the midday call to prayer
Bihath: Pineapples swelled my lips. Those are short glimpses of micro-muscular reverberations and contractions. I dreamt I asked to fill me up with a shot, like a double espresso of cum. Muscles clasped like tie-dye bag merged into the warm mixture. Something like vinegar activated. No emotions! Just a feeling of participating in the relay sprint, sucking up and not leaking. Exploration of space in more than 2-dimensional manner, adding the layers and the real axis of widespread perception and complexity. Proposing new matrix. The chemistry takes over my body and heightens the levels of the prostaglandin. Tendons too stiff, my thighs shiver, I burn myself down. Dense clouds cover every patch of the sky I can see, lying on the bed through windows. Another phase of spasms of restless un-belonging in the evening.
Act 6 The Homes. Bihath stands up and stretches hands, bends forward, makes a pose of gliding bird. Both the bird and Bihath swirls and eclipse each other, burning their nails, hair, and wingtips. Time flow intensifies, reactivating the distances, bursting the shock diamonds. One fresh urge of building something, like a house. Thought of the constant dealing with just yourself for the whole lifetime a quiver and intravenous suppression.
Jyop’ua describes the house, the vision of it triggers body’s reactions - I feel a short but firm pull over my left shoulder and relaxing bend in the whole left leg. Jyop’ua sees the sibling's hand guiding, keen and goal oriented nearing towards us. Opposite side of the table, squeezing in the keys in the palm as sort of rite of passage, a farewell, now that we are willing. Finger smears on windowpanes. Courage, the stir-fried oil, red pepper paste, and sneezing. Pleated tin fences, meshed and cut-out doors partially cover either tiled garage or a living room.
Act 12. Kissos picks the headset, scans the fingerprint and launches the app. Midway changes mind and puts the device down, then again unlocks it and stares at the window pane and moving dust particles.
K: Not yet.
Bihath: I was in a cave with columns built, no — formed over millions of years, millimeter a year.Xiăn: Can you see in the dark?
They catch the looks from the shop keeper while waiting for green
B: It has like thousands of curves, archaic pottery.X: I hate so much the leftovers of Concourtamine on my face.B: I feel the positive thing is to, hmm, all those expensive decisions, you know on one hand, I want to take an opposition, build something of vast proportions like a big —X: Waterfall. Thousands of water streams over undisturbed pond.B: What, why that?
B: How does the project run for you?X: I can keep the focus even, stay aware, uptight and I can even improvise, I think I like it.B: I thought you hated it.X: No.
B: One comes to hotel and just stays there. A feeling of self-induced, willful house arrest. I was living here for 3 weeks, walking around after breakfast, sometimes after lunch and a bit of intensive reading. Those days were of being a snake, scratching of roughly cut grass. I would pick the plainest clothes, and by marching around, I would enforce district’s boundaries — getting to the farthest limit each day and not crossing it. Other than that, I enjoy floating in the pool, no one ever uses it. Those places on concrete, where buildings throw their shadow from Eastern sun soften edges around them, nothing ever happens there too.
The time geometry squeaks and lunges. I put my helmet on; on the edge of panicking. A woman in the yard sows a seed of anxiety. The blue haze of a burning pile of furniture in the sun.
Weller: What are the differences of snakes and eels?
Xiăn: It’s simple, eels are ribbon-like fishes
W: I hear them rattle, the snakes I mean.
X: In bamboos?
B: Wipe your face in me
Bihath: KissosKissos: YesB: I wonder, when B: earth presses us all downK seenB: my eagerness then finds its tail, you knowK seenB: How do I go further? K seenB: I choose the least objectively attractive as a direct response to an understanding of myself; I want to spark something in them as I want to see it sparked in me.